


Constellations

by my_inked_asterism



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, F/M, Missing Scene, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-05 01:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15853161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_inked_asterism/pseuds/my_inked_asterism
Summary: “Oh my god, Ron… I’m sor–“For the second time in probably a minute, words die in her throat, now suddenly hoarse, when she notices the full view in front of her.Ron is standing right beside the closet, hair ruffled and… no shirt on.No. Damn. Shirt. On.





	Constellations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [remedialpotions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remedialpotions/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my favorite romione writer, Sara (@remedial-potions). I hope you like this baby fic, I wish you the best of days.  
> Enjoy xx

**Give me a pen**

**and lend me your skin**

**I'll trace constellations**

**in the freckles they fit in.**

**\- Tyler Knott Gregson-**

 

When she was a kid, Hermione used to compare the Burrow with a castle. The height of the house was for sure a contribution to her imagination (the highest floor she’s ever been was the fifth one in the palace where her parents work), but the main reason for why she used to think so is of a total different kind.

That house is a freaking labyrinth.

The moment you think you finally memorized the plant of the house, you visit it again and turns out a balcony has been added for “the house sake”, for balance, or a new utility room has appeared because apparently Mr. Weasley has a hard time with getting rid of old stuff. The point is, Hermione is getting _exhausted_.

Fleur and Bill’s wedding is going to be in less than twenty hours and Molly is getting her totally over her head with all the preparation thing. She hears the woman’s voice everywhere, giving orders and calling names, always hoping not to hear her own but that _eventually_ comes out.

She feels the anxiety growing in her chest, her mind traveling to every possible escape plan, what could go wrong in their quest and what she can leave behind since suddenly everything, every book and position and even garment, seems _so_ important. But no, she has no damn time to focus on plans because she’s got to cook first, or make magical laundries (she barely knows how to make _ordinary_ laundries!) or knit. Knit! She’s starting to suspect Molly is doing it on purpose to keep them busy.

Then among her flood of thought, she hears calling her name again. Mrs. Weasley’s voice comes from below, probably in the kitchen, and reaching somehow the top of the house without the need of any magical system. That woman scares her and amazes her at the same time.

“Hermione!!” Her name echoing through the numerous flights of stairs.

“Oh no,” Hermione whines. “No no no.”

Tired and desperate like she rarely has been, without paying attention she opens the first door she finds at her right and bumps in as fast as she can, immediately casting a “ _Muffliato_ ” charm and closing the door behind her.

Finally, a long sigh of relief escapes from her mouth, her eyes still closed for the newfound peace.

Then she opens them back, the sigh quickly turning into a gasp.

“Ron!” she squeals.

“What the f–“

“What are you doing here?!”

“I _sleep_ here!”

“What…?” But she doesn’t finish her question and starts looking around the room where she hadn’t payed attention yet, too concerned on her getaway.

“Oh my god,” she finally says, an apologetic look forming already on her face as she raises her hands to cover her mouth in realization. “Oh my god, Ron… I’m sor–“

For the second time in probably a minute, words die in her throat, now suddenly hoarse, when she notices the full view in front of her.

Ron is standing right beside the closet, hair ruffled and… no shirt on.

No. Damn. Shirt. On.

He immediately catches the look in her eyes, unable to remove the focus from his abdomen and impossibly broad shoulders, and a red hoe spreads from his neck until it reaches his ears, which Hermione finds adorable.

“S–sorry,” she stutters.

He chuckles nervously and starts rummaging in his closet, “Hey, it’s no problem, don’t worry.” He picks a forest-green flannel and puts it on without bothering of buttoning it up, which really, it doesn’t help _at all_.

She still doesn’t feel like complaining, though.

“It’s because of mom?” Ron asks, mostly to break the tension.

Hermione is still gaping and her mouth is dry and why _on earth_ is so hot in this room? “Yes,” she manages to mumble. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized it was your room, I was just… I got out of the bathroom and then I found out this new broom closet that I never saw and so I thought I got lost, which is really impossible I think since I sleep here since I was eleven – I mean not here _here_ , this is your room and I never slept in your room, I mean not that I wouldn’t! I mean… I didn’t know it was your room, though and then—“

“Hermione.”

“It’s just your mom lately is getting on my _nerves_ , and I promise that I love her, I do love her like a mother but I just…”

“Hermione!”

She shakes her head, the ranting stopping the moment she feels Ron’s hands on her shoulders and his sparkling blue eyes piercing her soul with the intensity of his look.

“Hermione,” he says, calmly. “Breathe.”

She’s not breathing, that’s right, she realizes.

“Breathe,” he whispers again, his hands moving up and down her arms in a comfort pace.

So she does, she lets go and breathes, and suddenly everything is back vivid and so _so_ blue and red and white and everything that is Ronald Weasley. She breathes and now, standing in front of him, his hands holding her tight to support her like the rock that he’s always been for her, she finally feels at peace.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” she replies with a whisper.

“Good,” states Ron, but he doesn’t let go of her yet, she notices.

His warmth spreads from her arms to her chest, reaching her heart is a second, and Hermione is now super aware of the closeness of their bodies, the bare torso of the boy only inches away from hers, and how even without any kind of cologne Ron always manages to smell so incredibly good.

Her chest starts aching again, but anxiety has nothing to do with it this time.

Unable to resist the sight, she glances down to check his skin, the small freckles decorating it like they are golden stars on porcelain. He is so pretty it makes her heart skips a beat or two.

“They’re so pretty…” she says out loud. Her voice is small, soft and she’s sure that if other people were in the room too, he’d still be the only one able to hear her.

“...What?”

“The freckles. They’re pretty.”

He laughs, softly. “Yeah, just like the scars around them.”

And at hearing the note of sharp sarcasm in his tone, Hermione lifts her head and looks him fiery in the eye. “I like your scars,” she states, honest.

Ron blinks, clearly taken aback by the change in her tone, “You do?”

“Of course I do.” And for good measure, feeling it impossible to restrain the impulse of touching him anymore, she places a hand on his sternum, right above the heart’s spot. She caresses a whitish thin line crossing his chest, as if it was the finest drawing she’s ever seen.

Hermione feels his chest swelling under her palm, his breathing sticking in his lungs as she keeps tracing imaginary patterns on his skin.

“When I was little, my dads used to tell me that scars were God’s autographs.” She smiles at the memory. She _hated_ scars back then, and the first time she got one – a tiny scratch beside her bellybutton – she felt embarrassed. She remembers even refusing to wear a bath suit because of that.

Now, looking at Ron’s stark waves, mixing up perfectly with the freckles and moles decorating his skin, she can’t believe the kid-herself wouldn’t have liked it.

“Well, I must be his fan number one in that case.” He gives her an endearing smile that warms her up at once.

Hermione chuckles and looks back at the scars on his torso, “I just...they look good on you. I love–“

His eyes widen, the hands on her arms become rigid.

“–them,” she concludes quickly.

Ron seems relieved at the word, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which now have come to look down with a strange sadness.

When she spots it, a rush of guilt spreads in her stomach and suddenly she wants to say so much, her mouth opens and closes three times in a row without actually saying anything, but he _has_ to know.

“Hey Ron, I–“

He looks up at her, their eyes meet and Molly’s voice shouts from behind the door.

“Ron, have you seen Hermione?”

They both jump, blushing hard and Hermione internally curses at… everything . Why is everything against them?

“Shit,” Ron lets out. It’s sort of intimate – this whole situation – as if they’ve been just caught doing something way worse (or better, depending on points of view) than whatever they were doing. He immediately grabs his wand to undo the spell she cast before and shouts back, “No mom, try in the orchard!”

“Why should she be in the orchard?!”

“Ask her if you find her there.”

Then Molly mutters something against Merlin and goes away.

When the steps of the woman fade away for good, Ron quickly turns her around and forces her to look at him. Hermione’s heart speeds up.

“Okay I think you have a good six minutes to reach the orchard and make up a decent excuse.”

“I, uhm, sure,” she says. Eloquence is at its best today, yep. “May Neville be with me.”

Ron laughs, and Hermione thinks she wants to hear that for the rest of her life.

“Oh, by the way,” he suddenly says when Hermione had just reached for the doorknob. “What were you about to say before my mom came?”

The hand on the knob freezes, and so does Hermione’s whole body. Her eyes go wide and after a pause that seems to last years, she licks her lips and says, “I don’t know, forgot that.”

She smiles as to apologize for something that she did, when the problem is on what she did _not_.

Then again, before closing the door, their eyes meet for one last time and he smiles back at her, eyes holding so much emotion for _her_ , and at the end of the day, she thinks maybe he actually heard what she hasn’t said.

 


End file.
